Broken Mirror
by MelasZepheos
Summary: Who does Miranda see in the mirror?


**AN:-** Wow. Hello again, I hope there are still some people coming to view these things.

I'm sorry I haven't written in so long. I'm currently working in Ireland and I haven't been near my XBox in three months. I've only just started writing again after all the crap I went through at uni.

Right, story, that's what we're here for. There's a picture by a man named Patryk Olejniczak (try saying that three times fast) of Miranda sitting somewhere in the Normandy, covered in engine oil and dressed in really loose baggy clothing, looking incredibly sad. When I saw it it said so much to me that I knew I had to write something based on it. This is (finally) the piece I ended up with. It's not finished yet, but it's somewhat of an insight into how I try and write Miranda (or will try and write her once I finally get back to tha whole novelisation thing.)

**Broken Mirror**

I was designed to be perfect.

It's a fairly simple concept, and yet one that people seem to have real difficulty wrapping their heads around. The idea that somebody could have been built, from the ground up, like a computer programme or a building. Or, more appropriately, a gun. Form and function all tailored to suit a need, one singular purpose for which the product is intended to be use. A product, I suppose that's all I am in the end. Humans are born, I was made. I envy them sometimes, the flawed and imperfect people I deal with every day. Some with low intelligence, some with physical problems; the man with his surgically corrected hare-lip, the woman with a lazy eye. People with acne scars, crooked teeth, large noses, bushy eyebrows, stretched skin from fluctuating weight.

Stretched skin from pregnancy.

You can sit in any air taxi on the Citadel and hear at least one woman talking about it to her girlfriends. Some tot back at home that daddy's taking care of for the day so that she can go out shopping with her friends. _The little terror, _they call them, _little monster._ As if there's something so hideously wrong with the child that they can't stand to be in its presence a minute longer. I envy them too. If I had… if I could. I wouldn't call on 'daddy' to watch over them; I wouldn't want to go out shopping with anyone just to get out of the house. I doubt I'd even leave the nursery. I dream about it sometimes, standing over a crib, looking down to see the pudgy arms flailing, the toothless grin and the eyes fixed on me. They gurgle that laugh and I can't help but reach down and pull them up into my arms, soft skin brushing against my cheek, little fists clutching at my hair, finally doing what no amount of missions can do and messing up my perfect locks. The warm body resting heavily on my chest and the smell of talcum powder and soap filling my nostrils as I plant a kiss on the smooth forehead and come away with the taste of something I can't place on my lips.

Then I wake to find myself holding a pillow. Most nights it ends up thrown across the room, only to be retrieved a moment later. I need it to get to sleep; I need to hold something, just to anchor myself to the bed. A child's nightmare, but I still keep a soft light on my desk, and I still hold that pillow, my shield against anything that would dare to attack me.

I was designed to be perfect.

There's an interesting word. Perfect. Perfection. Perfected. I often wonder why my father picked out the attributes he did for me. Biotics I can understand, strength, agility, athleticism, natural gifts of intelligence and creativity. In a perfect child those are what you'd want. It's the rest that confuses me. Why was I female? Surely a boy would be the perfect companion. A miniature version of himself, following him round and hanging on his every word, that would suit the bill certainly? Except it wouldn't be a miniature version of the real him. It would be how he wanted to see himself, and for every year the child grew up, more gifted and handsome and intelligent than he could ever hope to be. They say the Oedipus complex goes both ways; maybe the father would slay the son out of jealousy? A girl provides a distance. The connection is there, but it isn't a man who could one day take over from the father, girls are softer, weaker.

Ha.

At times like this I almost want to see him again, to ask him why I look the way I do. Brunette, so dark it's almost black. Why wasn't I blonde? I run up simulations on my computer sometimes, golden yellow, pure white, deep amber, I think I'd look better as a blonde, but I can never bring myself to just dye it. Black is professional, it's intimidating; it adds the air of mystery to me. Without it I'd just be some other spy, probably falling in love with some computer analyst in the organisation. No reputation, no image, no one knowing who I am.

Sometimes I think about the life the blonde me has and I feel envious of myself. Envious of two dreams, now that's truly pathetic.

Blue eyes, high cheekbones, pale skin that I find nearly impossible to tan, or even freckle. I'd give so much to have freckles, a spattering across my nose perhaps, just to show people that my skin is real, not fashioned from plastic. Eyebrows that have never grown out of place, full lips that would be just as attractive without the shades I add to them. Probably more so, my lipstick is chosen precisely to emphasise the intimidation. To drive away all but the most foolhardy of one night stands. Shepard doesn't wear lipstick, except when that asari comes aboard. Not that she needs lipstick either, but for such different reasons. Without it she looks like a real woman, someone who you would wake up next to and think was beautiful in a whole new way. Dressing up is easy, it's the ones who can look beautiful in the morning, bed hair and all, who get happily-ever-afters.

I don't look any different in the morning. My hair is genetically incapable of looking tousled, or wind-swept. My lips always look like I've just applied a fresh layer of shade, and my skin has a permanent look of foundation to it. My face doesn't look real sometimes, even to me; I stare into a mirror and feel like a doll is looking back at me. I know my body looks the same. I was designed to be perfect after all, and I have everything men should want. Large hips, a full and symmetrical bosom, long legs that taper to perfectly shaped feet. Small hands with long fingers perfect for holding a pistol. I would wonder why my father decided that I needed to have a body that all men would desire sexually, but frankly I think little enough of him already. All the things he got right and there was so much he got wrong. So little he understood about being a girl, or being a woman.

When I was a girl I wanted to know why I wasn't allowed to have sleepovers, or to go to regular school, or to have friends. He told me it was because I was special, and I shouldn't concern myself with people who were lesser than me. Meanwhile he raised me to be the perfect daughter, embodying all he thought was right about the universe, and all I could do to put it that way. Teenagers always rebel depending on the degree to which they were held back. I suppose it only holds to reason that my eventual rebellion should fit proportionally to the rules he set.

If I had a daughter, I'd try my hardest not to restrict her. She could be whatever she wanted, see whichever friends she had, date whomever she chose. Find out what sort of person she wanted to be, not what sort of person I wanted her to be. I'm sure with my genes in her she'd be great, but it wouldn't be manufactured greatness, it would be a combination of me and whoever I found to fulfil the duty of fatherhood. Obviously I have criteria he would have to meet, but as long as he loved her as much as I would then I could overlook a few issues. Maybe he'd have ears that stick out, and she'd have them too. She'd be horribly embarrassed every time she had to pull her hair back, but I'd sweep her up and reassure her that it doesn't matter, she doesn't have to look like me. I don't want another me in the universe, running around doing the things I've done.

I don't even want the first me in the universe.

**AN:****-** The predominant image I had in my mind when I was writing this, apart from the picture, was of Miranda looking at herself in the mirror. What exactly does she see in herself?

MASSIVE SPOILERS AHEAD (and not just for Mass Effect 2)

The Shadow Broker reveals that Miranda wants to have children, but is incapable of doing so. She drifts from meaningless relationship to meaningles relationship and is always constantly pushing herself to be better. These are not the actions of someone who thinks they are perfect, they are the actions of someone who can only see the flaws where other people see perfection. If instead of just taking it at face value everytime Miranda tells you in-game 'I was designed to be perfect' you think about what sort of stress she must have been put under as a child and an adult, it puts her in a whole new light. She doesn't tell people she's perfect because she believes it, it's just an automatic response. She also doesn't say 'I _am_ perfect' she says variations on 'meant to be, designed to be, built to be.' If she truly believed she was perfect, it would be the former, instead it's the latter, something she feels she has to live up to.

That's how I see it anyway.

Usual admitting where I stole stuff from time. Miranda with blonde hair falling in love with a computer analyst in the intelligence division. Sound familiar? Then you've obviously been watching _Chuck_, where Miranda's voice actress Yvonne Strahovski plays the blonde Sarah Walker, a badass spy who falls in love with a geeky nerd from the Nerd Herd at the BuyMore Charles Irving Bartowski. I love _Chuck_ more than it is reasonable for a human being to love a TV Show.

Feel free to tear this one apart in the reviews by the way. I know nothing about writing a supposed to be perfect super-spy woman who wants a baby.


End file.
